The Contract
Rain slicked the streets of Crescent City in neon reflections—blues, reds, and violent pinks bleeding together across asphalt. The kind of night that made you believe the city itself was alive, thrumming with secrets. The air was heavy, and beneath it all, if you listened closely, there was a rhythm, a pulse that didn't belong to humans.
Maya Santiago pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, ignoring the late-night catcalls and the faint reek of smoke curling from the bar across the street. Her heels clicked fast on the pavement, but her stride didn't falter. She was running out of time.
And money.
Her little sister's medical bills had piled high enough to bury them both. Three jobs weren't enough anymore. Her boss had cut her hours. The landlord had threatened eviction. Desperation had a taste, sharp and metallic, lingering in her mouth with every breath.
That desperation had led her here—to the tall glass tower stabbing at the storm clouds, gleaming with impossible wealth.
The Blackthorn Tower.
The headquarters of Damon Blackthorn.
Maya stopped at the base of the building, tipping her chin up to its full intimidating height. She wasn't naïve—everyone in Crescent City had heard whispers about the Blackthorn family. The kind of power that didn't come from business alone. Power older, darker. Power that made rivals vanish, made corporations fold, made even city officials bow their heads.
And Damon Blackthorn was the heart of it.
The Alpha.
Of course, the newspapers didn't call him that. They wrote of his empire, his cold-blooded ruthlessness, his string of short-lived romances with models and heiresses. The tabloids called him the city's most eligible bachelor. The business section called him untouchable.
But in the undercurrent of Crescent City, whispered in hushed tones in back alleys and smoky clubs, Damon Blackthorn was known for something else. Something that made even the boldest thugs cross the street at the sight of him.
Wolf.
Maya swallowed hard, wiping her damp palms against her coat. She didn't believe in fairy tales. But monsters? Monsters were real. And tonight, she was walking straight into the lair of one.
Inside, the lobby gleamed with steel and marble, cold and echoing. The receptionist didn't even blink when Maya stepped through the revolving doors, dripping rainwater. She must not have been the first desperate woman to show up here.
"I have an appointment," Maya lied, lifting her chin with a confidence she didn't feel. "With Mr. Blackthorn."
The receptionist's lips twitched. She pressed a button on her headset, murmured something, then nodded toward the elevator. "Top floor."
Maya blinked. She hadn't expected it to be that easy. Her pulse spiked as she stepped into the elevator, her reflection multiplying in mirrored walls. She barely recognized the woman staring back—dark eyes fierce despite the shadows beneath them, jaw tight with resolve.
As the elevator climbed, the air thickened. Pressure settled around her, heavy and electric. It prickled her skin, raising goosebumps. By the time the doors slid open on the top floor, her knees trembled, but she forced herself forward.
The office stretched like a lair—floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the storm-lashed city, furniture sleek and black, every line sharp as a blade. And behind a massive desk of obsidian glass sat Damon Blackthorn.
He didn't rise. He didn't need to.
Power radiated from him in waves, filling the room, stealing the breath from her lungs.
He was larger than life, broad-shouldered in a tailored suit that looked painted onto his body, the storm outside catching in the strands of his dark hair. His eyes—God, his eyes—were silver. Not gray, not hazel. Silver, metallic and inhuman, gleaming with a predator's focus.
Maya froze. Every instinct screamed at her to turn and run.
Instead, she walked closer.
"You're either brave," his voice was deep, smooth, threaded with danger, "or very, very stupid."
Her lips parted, but her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I need your help."
The corner of his mouth curved—not a smile. A warning.
"People don't come to me for help, Miss…?"
"Santiago. Maya Santiago."
"Miss Santiago." His tongue lingered over the syllables of her name, tasting them. Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself not to flinch. "You know what I am?"
The question hung between them, sharp as a blade.
Her throat tightened. She could lie, but the weight of his stare told her he'd see through it. So she nodded once.
"I've heard the stories."
His chair creaked as he leaned back, studying her. Lightning flashed, carving the sharp angles of his face into something otherworldly.
"And still you walked in here."
Maya's fists clenched at her sides. "I didn't have a choice."
Something flickered in his eyes at that. Interest. Amusement. Hunger.
"Go on."
She told him everything. Her sister Ana's illness, the crushing debt, the walls closing in from all sides. The words poured out, ragged and raw, because what did she have left to lose?
Damon listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When she finished, the storm outside had quieted to a steady rain.
"You're desperate." He didn't ask. He stated it like the weather.
Maya lifted her chin. "Yes."
"And what do you think I want in return?"
She hesitated, because the truth burned on her tongue. "Blood."
He laughed then—low, rich, and humorless. The sound made her insides twist.
"I don't feed on blood, Miss Santiago. That's another kind of monster." He leaned forward now, bracing his forearms on the desk, eyes locking onto hers with devastating intensity. "I want something else."
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"Marriage."
The word crashed into her like a wave, leaving her stunned, blinking.
"I don't—what?"
"You need money. Protection. Power." His gaze didn't waver. "I need… an anchor. Someone to silence the council, to convince them I've settled, that I'm stable. A wife. For a year."
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might split her ribs. "A contract marriage."
"Exactly." He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. "You play the part of my wife. You get your bills paid. Your sister gets the best medical care in the country. And when the year is over…" His mouth curved into something dark, something that wasn't a smile. "You walk away. Whole. Rich. Free."
Maya stared at him, trying to read the man—the monster—across from her. Every instinct screamed trap.
But what choice did she have?
Her little sister's face flickered in her mind. The hospital bed. The beeping monitors. The doctor's words.
She forced her voice steady. "And if I say no?"
Damon leaned back again, his silver eyes glinting. "Then you walk out of here, and hope you can outrun the wolves circling your door. Debt collectors. Landlords. Men who smell weakness. Men who smell you."
Her stomach dropped.
"You've been marked," he said softly. "I can smell it on you. The city's predators already know you're prey."
She hated the tremor that shivered through her. Hated that he was right.
"And if I say yes?"
He smiled then. A real smile. Slow. Dangerous. Beautiful.
"Then you become Mrs. Blackthorn."
Maya's hands shook as she signed the contract. The paper was thick, the ink dark as blood. Damon watched her the whole time, his gaze burning through her skin.
When it was done, he rose for the first time, towering over her.
"From this moment," he murmured, his voice like silk and smoke, "you're mine."
The room tilted, the air thickened, and before Maya could breathe, his hand closed around hers—warm, strong, possessive. The heat of him seared her skin, a brand she couldn't shake.
Her fate was sealed.
And somewhere deep in her bones, the wolf howled.
The contract wasn't just paper. It was a chain, coiling tighter around Maya with every second that passed after she scrawled her name.
She thought Damon would dismiss her until the morning, give her time to process, to prepare. But within an hour, she was standing in a private chapel tucked into the top floor of the Blackthorn Tower, the kind of place no one else in Crescent City probably knew existed.
There was no choir, no priest, no flowers. Only shadows, the gleam of candlelight, and the presence of Damon's personal lawyer who read the vows like legal clauses.
Maya's hand trembled as she held the pen again, signing the marriage certificate beneath Damon's name. His handwriting was sharp, slashing, commanding. Hers looked like a whisper beside it.
When the last line was signed, the lawyer excused himself with a shallow bow, as though Damon were a king. The heavy doors closed, leaving her alone with the man who was now her husband.
Not really. Not truly. This wasn't love. It was a deal.
Still, her stomach twisted as he turned toward her, the silver of his eyes catching the candlelight.
"It's done," he said.
Maya wet her lips. "That's it?"
"Did you expect roses? Champagne? A white dress?" His mouth quirked with mocking amusement.
"I expected…" She trailed off. What had she expected? Not this, surely. Not the quiet solemnity of something that felt older than the city itself. Not the way his voice carried the weight of truth when he repeated those words: It's done.
Because it was.
She belonged to him now.
The apartment Damon led her to wasn't an apartment at all. It was a penthouse that could have housed three families comfortably, with glass walls that looked out over the glittering sprawl of Crescent City.
"This is—" Maya stopped herself from saying too much. Nothing about him was too much. Everything about him was exactly enough to remind her of the distance between their worlds.
"You'll live here," he said simply, striding through the wide-open living room. His suit jacket shifted across his shoulders with every move, a predator disguised in Armani. "My staff will arrange for your belongings to be transferred."
"I don't have much."
His head turned slightly, those silver eyes brushing over her. "I know."
A shiver chased down her spine. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, not from cold but from the feeling of being stripped bare under his gaze.
"I'll give you what you need," he added after a pause.
"I only need enough to cover Ana's treatments."
"Your sister will be admitted to Blackthorn Memorial tomorrow. The doctors there are the best in the country. Money will not be an issue."
Relief broke through her chest, hot and sudden, and she almost sagged against the glass wall. For a moment, she forgot the fear, forgot the chains, and only felt gratitude so sharp it ached.
"Thank you."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Damon didn't answer right away. He only studied her, like she'd said something foreign. Then:
"Don't thank me, wife. You'll find that everything I do has a cost."
That night, sleep eluded her. The bed was vast, far too soft, swallowing her whole. The city lights pulsed against the ceiling, and every creak of the building made her wonder if it was him—coming closer, stepping through her door.
He didn't.
But she felt him anyway. The weight of his presence pressed through walls, an aura that filled the entire penthouse. She couldn't deny the hum under her skin, the way her blood seemed to race faster in his orbit.
This was dangerous. All of it.
And yet some traitorous part of her, curled in that enormous bed, whispered: What if danger feels like home?
The first test came the next morning.
She'd dressed in her simplest blouse and jeans, thinking she'd slip down to the hospital and see Ana as soon as Damon's driver arrived. But when she opened the bedroom door, she froze.
Because Damon was there.
Not in his suit this time, but in black slacks and an undone dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His throat was bare, strong, marked faintly with scars she couldn't look away from. He stood barefoot at the kitchen island, pouring himself coffee like he wasn't the most intimidating man alive.
Her pulse fluttered.
"You're awake," he said without looking up.
"I—yes." She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag. "I was going to the hospital."
"You'll have breakfast first."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Maya bristled, but the smell of coffee hit her, warm and rich. Her stomach betrayed her with a low growl. Damon's lips twitched like he'd heard it.
"I'm not hungry."
"Lies don't suit you, wife." He poured a second cup, sliding it across the counter toward her. "Sit."
She hesitated, then obeyed, because fighting him this early seemed pointless.
The coffee was perfect—strong, smooth, laced with a heat that seemed to crawl straight into her veins. She wrapped both hands around the mug, grounding herself.
"Why me?" she asked suddenly, the question ripping free before she could stop it.
Damon's silver eyes lifted to hers. The weight of that gaze made her feel pinned, exposed.
"Because you were desperate," he said simply. "And desperation makes people honest."
"That's it?"
His mouth curved slightly. "And because you're not afraid of me."
She laughed—short, bitter. "I'm terrified of you."
"No." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "You're terrified of what you feel when you look at me."
Her breath caught. She hated how right he was.
The weeks that followed blurred in a storm of contradictions.
Damon was everywhere and nowhere—sometimes gone for days, sometimes appearing suddenly beside her like a shadow stepping out of the dark. He didn't touch her beyond what was necessary in public, but his presence was constant, suffocating, electric.
The council dinners were the worst. Vampires in silk gowns, witches in sleek suits, humans who thought they were untouchable but bowed their heads when Damon entered the room. Maya played her role at his side, smiling, answering polite questions, feeling every eye measure her.
"She's human," one of them sneered once, too soft for anyone but Damon to hear.
"Yes," Damon answered, his hand tightening around Maya's waist. His smile was sharp as a blade. "And she's mine."
The room fell silent.
That was the night she began to understand what she'd agreed to.
This wasn't just a marriage. It was a declaration of war.
And Damon Blackthorn was the kind of man who never lost.
But danger didn't only stalk in candlelit council rooms.
It found her one night when she slipped from the penthouse to walk the streets alone. She'd told herself she needed air, needed to feel like herself again instead of Mrs. Blackthorn. She hadn't realized how quickly Crescent City could smell weakness.
Three men cornered her in the alley behind a neon-lit club, eyes glinting with hunger. Not the kind for flesh. The kind for prey.
"Blackthorn's pretty little wife," one hissed, stepping closer. "Bet he doesn't know you're out here all alone."
Maya's blood turned cold. She backed away, heart slamming, but they closed in.
And then the air split with a growl.
Damon.
He stepped into the alley like a shadow given flesh, his silver eyes burning, his teeth flashing in something too sharp to be a smile. The men froze. For one heartbeat, no one moved. Then Damon moved—too fast, too brutal, a blur of strength and violence that sent them scattering, broken and bleeding.
When it was over, Maya stood pressed against the wall, shaking.
Damon turned to her slowly, his chest heaving, a wildness clinging to him that was barely contained. His eyes weren't human now. They glowed, luminous silver, the eyes of a wolf.
"You shouldn't have left," he rasped, voice raw.
"I—" Her throat closed.
He stalked closer, and she swore the air itself trembled. When he stopped inches away, his hand lifted, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. The touch seared her.
"You belong to me," he murmured. Not a threat. A vow.
Maya's breath shuddered out of her. And despite every warning screaming inside her, she realized something terrifying.
Part of her wanted to belong.